


A Flame Like A Torrent

by Avierra



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avierra/pseuds/Avierra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fandom: Saiyuki<br/>Theme: Prompt Challenge: Ch-Ch-Changes<br/>Title: A Flame Like A Torrent<br/>Author/Artist: Avierra<br/>Warnings: NSFW<br/>Pairing(s): Hakkai/ Gojyo</p><p>Notes: For  devikun’s prompt: I would totally dig some kind of cracky Greek mythological spin on the author's pick of the themes. I mean, Greek mythological like Gods dicking mortals and stupid tragedies and epic heroics and fated love and unfairly maligned monsters. Horny demi gods, Bacchanalian hijinks, unbelievably endowed individuals, don't mind. Have fun! Make it as silly or as serious as you want!<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Flame Like A Torrent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devikun](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=devikun).



**Fandom:** Saiyuki  
 **Theme:** Prompt Challenge: Ch-Ch-Changes  
 **Title:** A Flame Like A Torrent               
 **Author/Artist:** Avierra  
 **Warnings:** NSFW  
 **Pairing(s):** Hakkai/ Gojyo

  
 **Notes:** For [**devikun**](http://devikun.livejournal.com/)’s prompt: I would totally dig some kind of cracky Greek mythological spin on the author's pick of the themes. I mean, Greek mythological like Gods dicking mortals and stupid tragedies and epic heroics and fated love and unfairly maligned monsters. Horny demi gods, Bacchanalian hijinks, unbelievably endowed individuals, don't mind. Have fun! Make it as silly or as serious as you want!

 

The afternoon sun beat down on the bare head of Metos of Lamphyrna as he entered the dark recesses of what seemed to be the only tavern in the only village in the whole benighted countryside. If it weren’t for the sake of his research... well, if not for that he would have forsaken this outpost of civilization weeks ago. But he supposed he shouldn’t complain. His pride in his scholarly abilities was his greatest sin, after all. Or so he had been told. He had his own ideas about that.

The village in which he currently found himself was situated at the base of the mountains, with cool breezes sweeping down from the peaks and the vine-covered fields fragrant and purple in the late summer sun. He had been wandering for so long, looking for clues and stories to aid him in his search. He had even consulted with an oracle, who’d inhaled her fumes, comfortably situated herself on her tripod, and told him he’d find what he was looking for in the last place he looked, which strictly speaking wasn’t very useful information. But all he had learned had led him here, to the backend of nowhere, or so it seemed. And yet, there was something about this place: it was so very pastoral, so very bucolic, and the people so very rustic. It almost seemed like a parody, one of those satire plays that were becoming so popular, written never to be performed but merely to be read and discussed.

The location was remote and unsettling to his city-dweller sensibilities, but the local people were the most disquieting, with their shy, half-wild eyes and secret smiles and their mountain accents. But there was a tavern, so it wasn’t as rustic as it seemed at first glance. Their glances skittered off him as he walked down the dusty street leading through the village square. A couple of women, their hair modestly covered with their key-patterned cloaks of scarlet and blue, grabbed their water vessels and hurried off as he advanced. A couple of men, their attention previously occupied by playing dice in the shade of one of the small houses, squinted up at him.

The tavern itself seemed to be the only business open, and even that was debatable. There didn’t seem to be many people around, although there was a pair of dusty sandals outside the door of the tavern. There were spots for market stalls, but no one was using them. But perhaps the village was remote enough that there wasn’t a consistent market or market day. It was annoying, though: he would have liked to buy some cheese and fruit. He was rather hungry.

The tavern-keeper was in the process of unenthusiastically sweeping the dirt floor around a couple of stained wooden tables. He glanced up and smiled when Metos entered, and dropped the broom against the wall.

Metos sat at one of the tables; it appeared to be crafted, if that were the word, from the cross-section of an ancient oak. The “chairs” were actually stumps, some with cushions. Those at least showed some craftsmanship, of fine, elegantly-woven fabric.

“How can I help you?” His voice was cheerful and he seemed glad to see him, at least. The other locals had seemed… not unfriendly, exactly… but certainly inhospitable. Most people were quite glad to see travelers to keep them up to date on what was happening in the wider world, and also to hear tales of things he had seen and done. The people here acted as if he didn’t exist.

“I’d like some wine, and something to eat.” His eyes adjusted completely to the cool darkness and he could see a bit better. The tavern-keeper was striking to look at: chiseled features that Praxiteles himself would not have disdained to carve; tall and well-formed, and long hair the color of the finest wine varietals. He wore it pulled back in a serviceable knot at the back of his neck; a black band over the top of his head held it all in place. His chiton was carelessly fastened on one shoulder, and he was barefooted.

Metos began eating the stuffed grape leaves and cheese the tavern-keeper provided him (the plates and the _kantharos_ were roughly formed and painted, but he had to concede the food itself was good), and carefully watered the wine, which was indeed very fine. Moderation in everything, as Lord Apollo prescribed. But he wondered if the town traded this vintage or if it was a well-kept secret. Someone with an eye to commerce could make some decent coin.

The tavern-keeper propped himself against the counter, waiting to see if he needed anything else.

“Is there a place I could wash up, and then perhaps find a room?”

The tavern-keeper pointed to the back door. “Spring’s out back, help yourself. How long will you be in town for?”

“I am not certain as to that. I am doing some research in the area, and I am not certain how long it will take. It varies, depending on what people tell me.” He smiled up at the tavern-keeper, who was thinking about what he had just said.

“Well, if it were only a day or two you could find a room in town just out of hospitality, but for longer, I have a little room you can rent. It has a window too, so it isn’t stuffy.”

Metos finished up his food and drink.

The tavern-keeper shook his head. “Well, the room is here, if you want it.” He threw back a curtain and showed a couch with clean coverings and a couple of plump pillows, a little shuttered window above it.

“I’ll take it,” Metos said, and went to wash the dust off himself.

*****

The tavern-keeper, who told Metos to call him Alikos, provided an interested ear for Metos’ findings to date. “Hmm. Well, I don’t know what half of that means,” he said when Metos had finished, “but there’s a temple down the road a ways. A pantheon.”

“Really. I had heard there was a priest and temple of Dionysus here as well.”

“I don’t know anything about that, but maybe the others can help you out with whatever you’re looking for.” He threw his dice and moved his backgammon piece across the board. “What sort of research?” he asked after a moment.

“I am doing research into the nature of the gods. Where they come from, their inner being, who they _are_. I want to know their reality, why they do the things they do. And perhaps how.”

Alikos bit his lip, considering all that. He had a pretty mouth, Metos noted distantly. “Huh. That seems rather…” he struggled visibly for a non-insulting word, “bold,” he finally said.

“Anything worth doing is, don’t you think?” returned Metos, still smiling.

“I don’t know, I think I’d be thinking about that guy who gets his liver ripped out by an eagle every day.”

“Mm. I think the gods have better things to do than keep tabs on me, honestly. I am not doing anything other than gathering information.”

“I don’t know…” Alikos repeated. “I wonder if you should take up joining a priesthood in that case. You’d probably find out all sorts of things along those lines.”

Metos took a sip of some really excellent mead, brewed, he had learned, by his host, who was clearly a man of many talents. He could have laughed; he was so ritually impure he could never wash the taint from himself. “I don’t think so,” he said. “But in any case. This area strikes me as perfect for his… Dionysus’… worship, given the location and the wine production. I think it would be interesting to talk to the priest. And Dionysus is supposedly the best-natured of the gods.”

“It seems to me that’s a pretty low bar.”

“Well, perhaps some of the local people can help. It’s pretty interesting, actually, the way different areas have different versions of events. Or maybe events occur differently according to the needs of the local populace. I am hoping something new will arise from any discussions I might have around here.”

“It’s pretty boring around here, really.” Alikos smiled ruefully and gestured at the empty interior of his tavern. “People just live their lives.”

“So why stay here, then?”

“I’ve got nowhere better to be, I guess.”

*****

He had talked to the priests in the pantheon temple, but none of them had anything particularly interesting to relate. They didn’t know— or said they didn’t know— anything about a cult of Dionysus in the area, but had plenty of general information to share about other gods. Most of it he had heard before, but then again, he hadn’t truly expected to learn anything major from extremely rural priests.

He’d been adventuring around the countryside for several weeks by that point, sometimes staying a day or two with a farmer or hunter, but without much success. Summer was beginning to stretch into fall, and the little town emptied out even further as the many chores of harvest began.

It would be time to make the wine soon, he thought. There was bound to be a festival to celebrate, but the local people didn’t seem to be making any preparations for it. It struck him as profoundly disrespectful, but he couldn’t get anyone to actually talk to him about their practices. But perhaps that was noteworthy in and of itself.

Alikos told him it was mostly along the lines of friends getting together and getting drunk on the new wine rather than a festival as such. He made a note of that; if there were a priest and if he ever managed to track him down, perhaps he could ask about it. Unless… perhaps the missing officiant was a priestess; he had heard that Dionysian celebrants were more often than not mostly women. But Alikos didn’t know anything about a priestess either.

“It’s very frustrating,” he told Alikos after one expedition for information. “I _know_ there are things I could learn around here. I’ve been trying to start interviewing the local people. Although they don’t seem to be very friendly-minded to outsiders. But still, sometimes one can glean a kernel of truth from tales from old grandmothers.”

Alikos sat back and regarded him over the rim of his goblet of beer, which he had also brewed, just listening.

“When I find what I need to know, I have some decisions to make, I suppose.”

Alikos didn’t say anything, just drank and waited, and so Metos continued. Alikos never asked; it was one of the things that made Metos feel as if he could tell him anything at all and there would be simple acceptance. It was a very rare quality, in his experience.

“You see. There was a woman,” he began earnestly, and Alikos smiled.

“There almost always is,” he said.

“Maybe so. I don’t think that it is an accident that the deities of inspiration are female. Anyway, she was everything to me: friend and sister. And… she was my lover.”

Alikos picked up his dice. “Huh. Guess you have more in common with them than I thought,” he muttered, and Metos was startled into a laugh.

“I never thought of that, but you’re right, of course. But then she died, taken from me, and there was nothing I could do about it.” At least these days he had enough control of his emotions where he could relate this series of events in a more-or-less conversational tone. There had been a time not so very long ago… but best not to think of that. “But what I don’t have in common with them is that they can return the dead to life. And I want her returned to me, where she belongs. ”

“I see,” said Alikos. His tone was even, and Metos stared at him sharply.

“You don’t have anything to say?”

“Would anything I said make the slightest difference to your plans?” He shrugged and drained his _kalanthos._

“You obviously have some thoughts on the subject.” That wasn’t exactly an answer to Alikos’ question, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Alikos sat back and rattled the dice in his hand. “All right. If the gods can return people to life, don’t you have to wonder why it almost never happens? I can only think of a couple of stories. And they don’t end well, do they? And as far as I know, you aren’t a son of Apollo and a Muse who can sing sweetly enough to touch even Hades’ icy heart.” He paused. “Or are you?” He tilted his head and ran his eyes over Metos in a considering fashion.

He fought down a blush at a gaze he’d have described as frankly admiring. “Ahaha. My singing is more likely to cause any unfortunate listeners to give in to my demands just to make me stop. No, my current thinking on the subject is that the gods are innately, inherently selfish, and they therefor refuse to use the powers over life and death to benefit anyone but themselves.”

Alikos nodded. “Probably a lot of truth to that. Or maybe they are unable to use it, for some reason. But mostly what I wonder if it’s because the price of the secret, whatever it is, is so high that even a god wouldn’t pay it.”

Metos had considered that idea as well, but it seemed to him that at least determining the nature of the secret itself would give him an idea as to his further options. And he was more than a little irritated at Alikos playing Hades’ Advocate with him, as if he were incapable of seeing any pitfalls on his own. He was well aware of the pitfalls. All of them.

“Perhaps so. But. I honestly don’t care,” said Metos with finality, and threw his dice with such force they bounced off the table. The muscles holding his smile in place hurt, and he wondered what his expression looked like. Alikos’ usual grin was entirely absent, and Metos resolutely ignored the pang seeing that caused him. He got up and pulled the curtain partitioning his room shut.

*****

Metos ventured out over the next couple of weeks to consult with some seers that the temple’s priests had suggested as being worthy of consultation, returning to the tavern every evening. He was startled to find that Alikos had taken to closing the tavern during the day, returning late at night—or rather early the next morning-- from wherever he had roamed. Metos wondered where that was, since it wasn’t as if there was a great deal to do in the town after the sun set.

Sometimes he didn’t return until morning itself broke, and once he stumbled in just as Metos was leaving for the day. He smelled of wine, flowers and honey, and his knees were green. There was a bruised mark on his neck. He grinned sharply at Metos (and his lips were kiss-swollen), and staggered back to the spring to wash up before collapsing onto his couch.

He snored. Metos found himself profoundly irritated, and the fact that he was irritated at all surprised him. And that he was surprised also irritated him. He left, seething.

He woke early the next morning and decided to wait for Alikos to appear. It was late morning when he rose, and he seemed surprised to see Metos.

“Oh. Good morning. Thought you’d be gone by now,” Alikos said. He smiled distantly at Metos and fetched a couple of plates and set some cheese, fruit and the local spelt flatbread on them and set them before Metos to eat. The mark on his neck flashed, lurid and purple, and Metos’ fingers clenched beneath the table.

“Anything else I can get you?” Alikos asked in a professional tone.

It was true that he had given Alikos something of a brush-off the last time they had actually spoken, but he hadn’t expected that he’d take it to heart. But he should have known; Alikos was not one to intrude where he hadn’t been invited.

“Are you closing up today?” he asked. “Isn’t that bad for business?”

Alikos blinked. “Eh. I’m not worried.” He gaze flicked around the little common area that had never held more than one or two people in all the weeks that Metos had been staying there.

“Well, what are your plans, in that case?”

Alikos stretched, causing an ripple of muscle beneath the loose folds of his chiton. “Thought I’d go fishing. Maybe look for bees’ nests and gather some honey. Not much else to do this time of year. Maybe I’ll start a batch or two of beer.” He glanced at Metos from under his long lashes, his expression guarded. “How about you? How’s your search going?”

“Not so well. I believe I need to re-evaluate my approach. In any case, I am taking a break for a couple of days to think about how best to continue.”

“Huh,” said Alikos, and drank his beer. He stood and paused by the door thinking, before coming to a decision. “Well. In that case, you coming along?”

Metos smiled. “I’d be delighted.”

*****

They sat in the shade of a tree on the bank of a swift-flowing mountain stream. Alikos put one foot on the end of his fishing rod to hold it in place, and lay back with his head on his folded arm, watching the clouds float by. Sometimes his eyes closed. Perhaps Alikos had some sleep to catch up on, Metos thought a trifle waspishly.

“Isn’t it best to do this early in the morning?” he asked after a while. He wasn’t bored, exactly, but he kept waiting for something interesting to happen. And the presence of Alikos lying there warm and entirely alluring was proving difficult to ignore.

“Only if you want to catch something.” Alikos grinned and jiggled his fishing rod with his foot. His eyes remained close. Metos watched the muscles flex in the tan skin of Alikos’ thigh, and came to a decision.

“Maybe I do,” he said, and leaned over and kissed Alikos square on his mouth. He actually grinned when Alikos’ arm swept up and wrapped around his back, his hand buried in Metos’ hair, pulling him down into an embrace. He felt just as warm and solid as he looked.

“Heh. Sorry to say, but I am pretty sure I’m the master angler here,” Alikos said, his voice rough, and Metos was, for once, pleased to agree.

*****

He washed up in the crystal water of the stream; it was icy cold even after the long summer. A sweet, pretty woman’s face stared back up at him through the water, the fierce green of her hair mingling with the ebbs and flows of the current. He stepped off the bank, still watching her. She grinned up at him after a moment, and her teeth were sharp and pointed. Her hand went to her pursed lips and then she mockingly blew a kiss at him. He thought he saw a delicately pointed ear amidst the mass of floating hair, then she dove down into the rocks along the stream’s bottom and vanished.

“Probably the nymph of the stream,” Alikos said sleepily when Metos woke him. “I didn’t know there was one here, but it’s not a real surprise. Did you talk to her and ask her your questions?”

“No, she left.”

“Just as well,” said Alikos, and kissed him.

*****

The status of his research was something that vaguely nagged at him as the days tumbled together, one after another. Alikos made it too easy to postpone a trip here or an interview there. It was just as easy to blame him for that, but then again, Metos didn’t put up much—or really any-- struggle against allowing himself to be swept away by Alikos’ charms and company.

The chief priest of the pantheon temple had invited some learned friends to visit and extended an invitation to Metos to join them for an exchange of ideas and learned debate, as well as a tasting of the first fruits of the harvest. He decided to gather up his belongings and make a visit of several days.

“All right, see you in a week or so then,” said Alikos. “Heading out myself; I need to get some supplies. I’m running low on a few things.” He gave Metos a lingering kiss that almost made him reconsider his decision to head out again, but then something flashed across Alikos’ face right before he left, and it looked a lot like relief to Metos.

Metos dug through a couple of chests and packed up his few belongings, along with his quills, ink and papyrus scrolls—although he had made scant use of them since he arrived so many weeks ago. It wasn’t until he was almost finished packing that he realized that the back of the chest was loose. He pulled it to set it properly in place, and it came away in his hand, revealing a little enclosed space.

Inside was a mask of ivory leather. A wooden crown of wreathed ivy and grapes fastened with black ribbons would help hold it in place on the face of whoever wore it. The eyebrows and lashes were painted on; the hole for the mouth was small, the shapely lips painted in a cheerful vermillion smile. It wasn’t a grotesque; it looked as if its purpose was to conceal identity. It also was decidedly non-human: the features both oddly elongated and pointed, and a broad, flat nose. A satyr’s mask.

A cult mask. Alikos, a man whose disdain for the gods rivalled his own (and Metos was entirely certain that disdain wasn’t feigned), had a mask made for the worship of Dionysus. And so there _was_ a cult of Dionysus out here, after all, despite his previous inability to find out anything about it.

The space in the chest was divided into two slots, to hold two masks. One was missing, and he suspected that it had been removed so that it could be used. A short search of Alikos’ room revealed it hung on a peg, concealed in the folds of Alikos’ cloak. So he had been planning to wear it, probably.

He sat back and thought, the mask cradled in his hand. His first reaction was curiosity. The mask was beautiful, of high-quality components, and not crafted in the same rough style as most things he had seen around this backwater area. He wondered why Alikos had gotten it. He wondered _where_ Alikos had gotten it.

After he thought about it for a couple of moments, his second reaction was rage. Alikos had this item, so he had known all along about any cult of Dionysus in the area and deliberately concealed it from him, and more-- _worse_ , in Metos’ opinion-- had attempted to throw him off the track of whatever was going on.

And now he wondered about the invitation from the temple with their group of learned sages and their _symposium_ that would last several days. Its arrival at this particular time, in retrospect, seemed a little _too_ coincidental.

But mostly he felt betrayed, and it threw everything he thought he knew about Alikos and their friendship, if that is what it was, into disarray. And he couldn’t help but review their interactions in the harshest light.

So. Tonight was the full moon, and it was time for the harvest festival. He should have realized, and he would have, if he had not been so besotted. He took his pack and left the house. It would be easy enough to conceal himself until whatever happened, happened.

*****

As soon as the sun began to set, he donned the mask and wrapped a red-patterned cloth over his head and shoulders, adjusting his chiton until it reached his ankles. He had no idea what he looked like, but he was fairly certain it wasn’t Metos of Lamphyrna. As long as he didn’t talk, he should be able to pass as a woman.

The moon was full and bright, and it was easy to mix into the group of singing, chanting revelers that began streaming from the houses of the little village and the surrounding farms. Groups of women loosened the tops of their chitons until their breasts were exposed to the night, hitching the folds up around their waists until their legs were uncovered. They danced barefoot up the mountain as they drank from shared goblets, arms slung around waists and over shoulders; their hair flowed unbound and wild. Some had painted their faces, their eyes darkened with kohl, their lips reddened. Some wore masks, as he did. Some others swung lanterns on sticks, trailing patterns of flame and sparks; some swung censers of sweet-smelling smoke that perfumed the air; some sang, some played pipes or clanged little cymbals at the tips of their fingers. Most of them carried a staff topped with a pinecone, wound with vines and tied with gay ribbons. All of them drank as they walked, and the music and singing grew wilder and more uncoordinated as they made the trek around the mountain’s flanks.

Metos found himself caught up in the rhythms of the chanting, breathing the smoke and drinking under the edge of his mask. He did not become inebriated easily, but he began to feel a little lightheaded, and he found that hilarious. He had to remind himself several times not to laugh.

It grew darker and darker as they walked. The sparks from the lanterns looked like stars in the velvet night. And then a golden chariot appeared ahead of them, driven by a beautiful, shining youth. His arm clasped tight around the waist of a pretty brunette woman. Both of them were dressed in gold-spangled purple, he with one shoulder bare; she demurely draped with her dark hair braided and gathered. Grape vines wreathed both their heads and wound in between the spokes of the wheels, and across the axles. The chariot was pulled by a group of leopards and tigers harnessed together, and when the revelers saw the chariot appear, their music swelled into screams and chants of praise and delight, and they ran forward towards him, dancing ahead on bare feet. Shrieks of laughter shattered the quiet of the night.

More and more people joined them as they ran up the mountain and through the woods, beings such as he had heard of but never seen: naked men, already half-aroused, with silky horse tails flowing in the night breeze, their faces flat and wide; voluptuous naked women with hair of green and blue, flowing free down silken shoulders. They all joined in the singing and chanting with the women.

“The first!” screamed a woman joyously, and swung a rabbit by one leg above her head. The women near her grabbed the rabbit’s other legs, and they tore it apart. Its blood splattered them, dying their faces sand breasts scarlet. They danced alongside the chariot and offered it to the youth, who touched it and then returned it to them. The chariot never stopped, and the big cats ignored the revelers.

“Blessed, O Blessed!” sang the woman, her smile wide and frantic, beautiful and wild. They threw pieces of meat into the crowd to howls of delight. A woman near Metos caught a piece and devoured it, her face twisted with ecstasy.

A couple of pheasants, more rabbits and even a deer met the same fate, groups of women peeling off from the throng to hunt and rend. Most of the celebrants were speckled with streaks and drops of red by the time they reached a large clearing, and the chariot stopped.

There was a lone figure there, leaning against a huge garland-wound tree in the center of the clearing and waiting, masked and tall, red hair flowing unfettered down his shoulders, pinecone-tipped staff held loosely in his hands. His red chiton was unbound and loose around his hips, and Metos could see the nubs of two small horns poking through his hair and the tips of pointed ears. Funny how he had never noticed that, but then Alikos always wore a wide headband to secure his hair. His mask was the twin of his own, except he had carefully twisted real ivy into a crown in his hair. A huge fire blazed off to the side.

He wanted to laugh again, and brought his hand up to cover his mouth.

When the chariot stopped, Alikos whirled and struck the ground hard with his staff; a fountain sprang forth, the scent of wine perfuming the air. The crowd streamed into the clearing hanging their lanterns from the trees. The clearing turned golden-bright, and in the flickering light he could see tables and couches set up to the side; meat and cheese, honey cakes and delicacies spilling onto the ground in plenty.

The youth jumped from the chariot, and held out his hand to help the woman descend. He pulled her close and kissed her, and the crowd roared. A human woman crowned with a living snake flicked drops of wine from a golden goblet at them, and the goddess giggled as her dress became splattered with purple. Some of the celebrants threw handfuls of leaves onto the bonfire, and the sweet-smelling smoke billowed over the clearing. The youth and the woman made their way to one of the couches and reclined on it, their hands wandering, caressing each other.

Metos could see Alikos standing very still, his head tilted. He stood apart from the throng, and Metos blearily wondered what he was thinking.

Satyrs and nymph linked arms with human women and formed a circle, dancing, their bare legs flashing beneath the folds of their chitons. Pipes shrilled, drums beat time, and cymbals punctuated the music that grew wilder and more chaotic until the dancers collapsed in wild laughter, a tangle of limbs and arms and heaving bodies.

Different dancers took their place, and couples—and sometimes more-- chased each other around the clearing and through the woods, some striking their pursuers with their staff, others allowing themselves to be pulled down to the ground.

Alikos turned and surveyed the crowd, leaning back against the tree. He stiffened when he saw Metos, and then uncrossed his long legs and arms and wended his way around the writhing bodies and pools of wine and honey to him.

He sighed, and even through the cacophony Metos could hear how tired he sounded. Whatever it was that he had expected from this encounter, it was not that.

“Oh, Metos,” he said, and his voice bled doom as much as any oracle that Metos had ever consulted. “You should not have come here.” He reached out his hand and curved it around the side of Metos’ face, his thumb tracing an arc along Metos’ cheekbone.

“That was not your decision,” he began, and Alikos cut him off, and glanced fleetingly over at the youth.

“Don’t say anything,” he interrupted, and his voice sounded frantic and terrified. “And whatever you do, _don’t run_.”

But whatever it was that Alikos had hoped to prevent was too late; when Metos spoke, the youth raised his head from where he had been nuzzling the woman’s neck, and looked over at them and smiled. It should have been cheerful and disarming, but instead Metos felt something inside him freeze and try to hide, just as if he had been one of those rabbits the women had torn to pieces.

The youth stood up, and held out his hand for the woman, and they rose from the couch, and Alikos pulled Metos behind him and waited.

The youth was beautiful, shining, there was really no other word for it, with hair the red of grapes and wine, and the gold of beer and mead, curling in ringlets down his smooth shoulders, a crown of grape vines securing it all out of his pretty, pretty face. His chiton was carelessly secured around his waist. His eyes were the pure black of starless skies.

“Father.” Alikos poured his goblet of wine onto the ground in front of him and knelt on one knee before the young man. “And Lady Ariadne.” His voice was very reserved, which was so unlike him that Metos stared.

The youth reached down and pulled him up, and removed his mask, tossing it to the ground. “I am pleased to see you here, Alikos. It has been long since you… graced… one of our festivities.” His voice was musical and pleasant, and Metos found himself calmed, lulled, and he leaned against Alikos’ back, strong, broad and warm, and wrapped his arms around his waist. He fought the urge to giggle. The smoke-scented air swirled around them, and moans and cries of pleasure and the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh punctuated the skirling of the pipes. Off in the distance he could hear screams.

“Ah. Well. I was invited.”

“Even so,” said the youth. “And who is your inquisitive friend, who has been causing me so much difficulty, upsetting my people, inquiring into the most forbidden of sacred mysteries, invading my holiest rites?”

“He’s with me, Dad,” said Alikos. “I brought him.”

The shining youth smiled. There was a streak of red down the front of his chest and _chiton_ , and the pelt over his shoulder was fresh. “Is that so?” He peered over Alikos’ shoulder and deep into Metos’ eyes. The endless black seemed to seep into Metos’ soul. “You brought the get of that blatherer to one of my celebrations?”

“What?” Alikos said, confused. He twisted around and stared at Metos. He beamed at Alikos. He had no idea what the two of them were talking about, but Alikos’ expression was almost comical.

“Your friend. As if I couldn’t sniff out the blood of the shining one.”

“Father, I--” Alikos fell to his knees again. He looked desperate, and Metos swayed a step towards him, his hand extended. He found himself completely unable to say a word. The youth’s infinite eyes flicked towards the two of them, and his lips curved.

“Get up.” He waited until Alikos rose to his feet again, his shoulders slumped. “So. I take it you wish to ask me for a boon. That _is_ why you are here, is it not?”

“No. I came to ask… To stay your hand. That’s all.”

“My dear boy.” That should have sounded sarcastic, but even through the haze and chaos of his muddied thoughts, Metos could tell it was sincere. “That _is_ a boon, and a heavy one, at that. I have been put to a great deal of trouble because of him. And you. If you had attended to your responsibilities to begin with… but that is the way of mortals, I suppose. And while you are my beloved child to whom I am naturally disposed to benevolence, I have no such relationship with him. Quite the opposite, in fact. You have no idea how much smoothing-over I have had to do.”

The woman elbowed him in the ribs and he waved his hand airily. “All right, _fine_ , that my lady has had to do. The point is that we have had to call in all sorts of favors and put ourselves in debt to others, which is not something we particularly enjoy. So yes. You, and your… _friend_ … owe me.”

“Then, yes. I wish to ask you for a boon.” Alikos bowed his head and sighed, and the youth smiled.

“Excellent. I find I rather enjoy the prospect of doing you a favor.” He tapped his long fingers on his lips, thinking.

“Your mother misses you. And so do I. I would be quite pleased to see you more frequently.”

“Dad...” He sounded broken, and Metos wanted to gather him up and keep anything and anyone from making him sound that way ever again, _and he didn’t care who they were_ , but he couldn’t move. The youth tilted his head and regarded him curiously, a crooked little smile twisting his mouth, and he looked almost exactly like Alikos at that moment.

“Well, then, be welcome to our gathering, Metos of Lamphyrna,” he said. “Enjoy the rites!” He reached over and removed Metos’ mask, and kissed Metos on his forehead between the eyes. “My blessing upon you.” A bolt of flame swept down his spine and spread through all his veins, burning him from the inside out, and he would have screamed in agony if only he could have. He collapsed against Alikos’ shoulder. The youth laughed. And Metos could move and speak again.

“I—”he began. He didn’t know what he was going to say, except he had to explain things to this shining being, to undo whatever Alikos had just done. Except he couldn’t stop laughing.

“Metos, _please._ ” Alikos begged him, his expression pleading. _Begging_. It was so wrong that the words choked and died unspoken in his throat. And he supposed that was _his_ punishment. That notion was utterly hilarious for some reason, and he wrapped his arms around Alikos’ waist, put his head on his shoulder, and giggled. He was welcome here now, after all. Lord Dionysus had said so.

The woman, Ariadne, looked at the two of them and drew a ring from her finger as her divine consort wandered off. “I think you will probably need this,” she said, and started to hand it to Metos. “Or perhaps you should take care of it for now.” Her smile was a bit rueful. She curled Alikos’ hand around it and patted it.

“Thank you,” said Alikos carefully, and stashed it in a little pouch at his waist. He grabbed Metos around the shoulders and steadied him. For some reason his legs weren’t working quite right.

“Enjoy the festival,” she said, and patted both of them on the cheek.

“I feel like smashing something,” said Alikos after a long moment, and Metos giggled again. A gust of wind blew the smoke around them, and Alikos cursed and pulled them into purer air. “I should get you home.”

“No, we should feast. And drink. And dance.” He stared dreamily into Alikos’ face. “I would like to see that.”

“I am a terrible dancer,” said Alikos, and for the first time he sounded at least a little amused.

“No. You aren’t. But maybe we could dance together,” said Metos and sucked hard at the base of Alikos’ neck. There had been a marking there before, he remembered in hazy annoyance, not so long ago, and he sucked harder, his teeth nipping at the tender skin there.

“I see you aren’t going to make this easy,” Alikos said. His breathing hitched and Metos’ hands wandered down his chest and under the edge of his chiton.

“I don’t think I should,” Metos murmured. He stroked up Alikos’ thigh, and yes, Alikos did want him, he could feel just how much. He grinned. Alikos reached down and clasped Metos by the wrist and tried to pull his hands away, but Metos leaned over and kissed him hard, his hand tangling in all that beautiful red hair. Metos had no idea why Alikos was even struggling with him, but when he wrapped his fingers around Alikos’ cock and stroked, his resistance seemed to crumble. Alikos grabbed him and dragged him into the woods.

“You fight dirty,” he said, but he laughed breathlessly as Metos pulled his chiton away. There was something not quite right with his hands, but he didn’t really care, and neither did Alikos, apparently.

Smoke billowed around them, ghostly white, and Alikos threw his head back and gasped as Metos fingers traced down his sides. Metos could smell the iron scent of blood from somewhere, and it was delicious.

“Do it,” Alikos hissed, and Metos laughed as both of them fell to the ground.

*****

He awoke the next morning right after dawn; the air was utterly still. He could see dew lightly covering the leaves and branches on the ground around him, but he was warm and mostly comfortable; there was some sort of blanket over them. He didn’t know, as such, who had covered them, but whatever had been thrown over them was purple and gold, and finely woven, so he had a good idea. Alikos lay insensate next to him, his arm flung around Metos’ waist. Alikos was covered with long scratches and gouges, some still bleeding sluggishly—the proof of Metos’ passion (or more accurately his complete and utter lack of control, he thought viciously)-- and when Metos saw his own hands in the cold light of day, with their vine-marked fingers and long, tapered claws, he honestly wished he was dead.

*****

“You should have let him kill me; you should have let the women tear me to pieces.” Metos stared at his hands and the vines that crawled around his arms and legs and torso, and he was almost certain that if he closed his eyes and thought about it, they’d move in reality, twining around and binding his arms. Probably they were the only thing holding him together. It seemed as if the entire world was falling to pieces around him.

“Sorry. But I’m not sorry.” That was the first time he had ever heard Alikos actually sound angry, and it was enough to wrench his attention away from his markings and his clawed fingers.

“I suppose I should have realized the nature of his “blessing.” He couldn’t help the bitterness in his voice, and buried his head in his hands.

Alikos stared at him. “He’s a god, did you think he was being _kind_?”

He didn’t answer and hunched his shoulders.

“Metos,” Alikos began, then sighed. “Oh here, I almost forgot, Ariadne left this for you.” He tossed the ring to Metos.

It was a pretty bauble, a little snake twining around in a spiral, swallowing its own tail. Tiny little red chips of stone winked where the snake’s eyes would be.

He put it on his finger and writhed as his body twisted and reapportioned itself; it was quite painful although it only took a couple of seconds. Transformations were apparently agonizing. But maybe that was the point.

“I’m a monster now,” he said, holding his hands in front of him and staring where the vines had been an instant before. “A beast.” Alikos stiffened and stood up.

“No! I didn’t mean you,” Metos said, instantly contrite. “Not you. Never you.”

Alikos snorted. “Yeah. I know. Just all the other monsters.” His voice was very even. “Let’s cut the bullshit. I can understand taking on a task that has an almost certain outcome. You and I both know what you wanted to happen. What you _hoped_ would happen. I think it’s a pretty roundabout way to try to kill yourself, but your mind is pretty twisty, so I guess it makes sense, sort of. But you can still pass as human if you want, and pursue your inquiries. As far as I can see, your options have actually expanded. The world is open before you. You have the possibility of access to _monsters_ now.”

Alikos didn’t say anything else as he bound his hair up and carefully covered up the signs of his own non-humanity-- the tiny nubs of horn, the delicate, pointed ears-- but his eyes were hard. He started to walk out the door, but stopped when Metos called after him.

“Where are you going?” He hated that he sounded so uncertain.

Alikos took a deep breath and firmly settled the folds of his cloak. “He wants me to visit my mother. So that’s where I’m going.”

Metos rose and gathered his own cloak, curious despite his misery. “That woman, Ariadne, isn’t your mother?”

Alikos laughed with no visible evidence of humor. “No. But she’s always been kind to me.” He watched Metos’ preparations to accompany him, but didn’t tell him to sit back down.

They travelled along in silence, for a couple of hours, taking a small, twisty deer-path up into the mountains, and eventually Metos said, “I’m sorry. For everything. This… _everything_ … has all come as a shock to me, and I don’t know what to do or think, and I _need_ to think about it. And I haven’t had time. But—”

Alikos turned around and grabbed his hand and kissed him hard. “No, don’t. Don’t. I’m an ass. You have a lot on your plate and I made it worse.” He shook his head. “It’s all right. It will be all right, and if it isn’t, we’ll _make_ it all right.” He sounded so fierce that Metos laughed, and when he heard it, Alikos smiled back at him, tentative but real.

They arrived at the dried remains of a spring, and Alikos drew out a flask of crystal-clear wine from his pack and poured it out in the center of the depression. He sat on a boulder on what used to be the bank of a little pool, and stared out over the mountainside with its cover of green grass and flowers. Metos could make out the pebble-lined remains of where a stream had once splashed down the side of the mountain.

“There was a drought awhile back,” said Alikos finally. “And her spring dried up, and then she was gone, just faded or something. I guess that’s how they—nymphs and satyrs and people like them-- go. And I begged him to bring her back, and he wouldn’t do it. And I hated him for that. Maybe I _still_ hate him for that, I’m not sure. But I know he did love her.” His eyes were focused on a small herd of deer lying in the shade of a grove of trees.

“I told him I’d do anything, _anything_ if he’d go to the Elysian Fields and get her, that I’d take her place if Hades wanted to trade. And he said that no true parent would make such a bargain and not to say that to him again. He said she would be ashamed of me if she could hear me. He doesn’t actually get angry very often, you know. He said everything passes, even the gods one day, and that’s the way of things. And I think that too. So I wouldn’t bring her back, now, if I could. Or try to. But I would have then. So, I do understand.”

He flopped back on the boulder and stared up at the sky, and was quiet for a very long time. Metos sat next to him and wondered if he had fallen asleep. “You know, you’re supposed to give burnt offerings to the dead, but it seems wrong for a water nymph.” Metos covered up his smile with his hand, and Alikos grinned again.

“What happens if the spring starts flowing again?”

“Hmmm.” Alikos thought about it. “I’m not sure. The nymph wouldn’t be my mother, she’s gone. But she could be someone else. I guess… maybe sort of my sister. Haha.”

“I’m not sure it works like that,” said Metos.

“Eh. I bet you could figure it out.” He glanced at Metos out of the corner of his eye and grinned.

“Maybe. I’ll think about it,” Metos said. Alikos did have a point about new opportunities opening up to him. Maybe when he didn’t feel so _raw_ …

“You do that,” said Alikos, interrupting the downward spiral of his thoughts, and wrapped his arm tightly around Metos’ waist.


End file.
